Crash and Burn

by Lange, Artie

  So I replaced Joe Montana, and to make matters worse, since we had no one on the sidelines, Joe had to hike the ball to me. By then he had a real attitude about me and the look on his face said it all. He said he didn’t remember me, which is good because I’d started tallying up all the times in ten years I’d called him either gay or an asshole on the Stern Show, and it wasn’t pretty.

  I started calling out the numbers: “Blue forty-two!”

  And before I got any further, Joe Montana threw me the ball in disgust and jogged out to the sidelines. It didn’t matter, because I was in the pocket and I might not have been mobile, but I could get my arm up high enough to throw. I sure as hell wasn’t going to let Joe Montana be right about me—that guy had made a fool of me too many times for nearly twenty years. I had to put an end to that shit.

  I looked to Terrell Owens because as the only open receiver with actual professional football instincts he was my only real choice. T.O. was being covered by the one and only Nick DiPaolo, so this was a shoo-in, but for the fact that Deion Sanders was helping Nick out. When T.O. cut to the middle I threw a spiral as hard as I could, which looked to be over his head. And this is where seeing a pro athlete, retired or otherwise, perform up close is just awesome, because T.O. took off past Deion like he had a rocket up his ass and caught up to the pass. The ball hit him between the numbers and he got a few more yards before Deion grabbed his flag, but it was a great play, so the whole place went nuts and started cheering my name. Joe Montana came out and gave me a high five, and I could not believe any of it was happening; I was having this great moment and finally, for once, Joe Montana wasn’t—because of me! It was a victory I’d been waiting for for a long, long time.

  Cam kept me in for the next play, with Joe Manganiello substituted for T.O. I didn’t know this, but Joe had played ball all his life and if he hadn’t taken up acting he would have gone on to the NFL. He’s built like a player, so I thought we could just repeat the same play and get on the board. I told him to run the same pattern and we got set up and hiked the ball. Maria Menounos was in and she put heavy pressure on me but I was able to get a pass off. The only problem was that Joe Manganiello must have forgotten all of his ball knowledge when he started memorizing lines for a living because he cut the wrong way. He’s come on the Nick and Artie Show since then and we talked it over and he insists that he knows a post pattern from a down-and-out, but I’m not so sure. Whatever happened, I ended up throwing the ball right into the arms of a player on the other team—Snoop Dogg. I looked over to the sidelines and saw Montana shaking his head. And I couldn’t have been picked off by a worse person because Snoop is such a natural entertainer that he showboated the hell out of it. The network had told us to keep things PG, and considering Snoop’s body of work I guess this was PG for him, but he looked into the camera, drew an imaginary spliff in the air, and took a hit. Then he set the ball down the way you would before a kickoff, slowly got to his knees, and began doggy fucking it until the producers ran on the field and made him stop.

  We lost the game, and I was so bitter. I blamed Joe Manganiello, which was bullshit—it wasn’t his fault at all. I’ll say that officially: Joe did the right thing and I didn’t. I did my best to stay away from Snoop in the press room and at the after-party but he kept following me, saying shit like, “Hey, man, you throw good, you put that football right at my head!” He said that between quips about his new sneaker line, which he joked features steel in the heels so that pimps can properly keep their hoes in line.

  I asked him why pimps didn’t just slap their women around with their hands the way other men do.

  “A pimp got to keep his hands clean, Artie,” he said. “He don’t want to ruin his nails educating a ho.”

  ————

  As I mentioned earlier, thanks to my amazing employers, the great Chris Long and his team at DirecTV, I got to enjoy the game from the third row on the fifty-yard line, with a bird’s-eye view of the Giants beating the Patriots. And since my cohost, Nick DiPaolo, is from Boston, this afforded me endless opportunities for ball breaking, which is the greatest gift you can give a guy like me. The whole thing even inspired me to write a song about how much Boston sucks, called “Boston State of Mind,” to the tune of Jay-Z’s “New York State of Mind.” It was my first attempt at a rap song, and I’m proud of it because it features lines like these:

  Boston, the birthplace of Facebook, and the comedy of Dane Cook.

  Boston, where Bucky Dent made the Red Sox look like the cast of Rent.

  Boston, this town is a big joke, where Len Bias bought bad coke.

  And my personal favorite:

  You know New Yorkers are always stuck in traffic on the packed Upper Bruckner, the only thing getting through is a ground ball to Buckner.

  After viewing two Super Bowls from box seats in hell, there I was, with my own radio show, watching my team defeat the evil Patriots from the best seats in the house. The Marriott where we were staying was covered in broads wanting to hang out with anyone connected to the broadcast, so I was in heaven.

  The only downside was that I had to go home and be back on the radio the next day and they’d routed me through Atlanta, which made what should have been an hour and a half flight into a five-hour ordeal. Nick and I had to leave early in the morning and do the show that night, and his flight was even worse because for some reason he had to deal with a transfer through Charlotte. He was bitching about it nonstop, and it only got worse after his team lost—the guy was incapable of speaking a positive word. Anyway, he and I agreed to leave together at seven a.m. and share a ride to the airport.

  That was before I ran into this kid Ross, whom I used to work with at Sirius, who was flying back on his friend’s private jet. “Art, you should come with us,” he said. “The guy is a huge fan of yours; if you come hang and bring him a signed copy of your book I’m sure it’ll be cool. We have room for you.” He checked with the guy and it was in fact cool, so Ross told me he’d pick me up in the limo at my hotel around seven a.m. and we’d head right to the jet. I couldn’t believe my luck—this was going to cut seven hours of travel out of my day. This was also yet another chance to fuck with Nick, even more so once I learned that aside from Ross and his buddy and me, all the other passengers on this ten-seater plane were girls who had just posed for Maxim, all of them twenty-one or twenty-two years old. I was so excited to bum Nick out in the morning that I could barely sleep that night.

  I was out in front of the hotel bright and early knowing that Nick would probably be early, which he was, as usual. I was there already, all smiles. “Hey, man, how you doing today?” I asked him.

  “Whatever, fuck you,” Nick said, almost spitting at me. “Yeah, I know, I get it. Giants win.”

  “I mean, yeah, but I’m just happy to see you, man,” I said.

  “Whatever. Let’s get going, There’s a cab over there.”

  Just then the limo pulled up and three girls leaned out the window. “Hi, Artie!” they said.

  Ross leaned out the other side: “Hey, Art, let’s go. We don’t want to miss the plane, man.”

  Nick looked like Walter Matthau standing in a cold New York City rain. “What the fuck is this?”

  “Oh, shit, I forgot to tell you,” I said. “My buddy Ross got me a private jet home, so I’m going to head out with him and the girls. Enjoy that ride to the airport with Sandip from Pakistan. Sounds like that cab has a bum muffler. Tell the guy he should really get that checked out.”

  “I hope your plane crashes, you asshole,” Nick said. “You’re a fucking bastard, you know that?”

  “Artie! Come on, let’s go!” The girls had opened the door and were sipping champagne, all of them in tight shirts and short skirts.

  “This has got to be a joke,” Nick said.

  “Afraid not, man,” I said. “I’d have you along, but the plane is full. So have a great flight and I’ll see you in the studio. It’s gonna be a great show tonight.”

  Nick f
inally realized that this was happening. “Have a great flight, asshole,” he said, “and fuck you.”

  “I will, Nick,” I said, getting in, as a girl sidled up on each side of me. “Oh, and Nick? Fuck the Patriots and fuck you.”

  By ten forty-five that morning I was in my apartment watching SportsCenter as Nick landed in Charlotte, completing the first of his three flights. I decided to check in with him and was shocked that he didn’t pick up. I left him this message:

  “Hi, Nick, it’s Artie. I’m home safe. I’m all right, just wanted to let you know because I know that you’re worried. So don’t worry, I’m very comfortable. I have a sandwich, I have SportsCenter on, and a few of the Maxim girls are here keeping me company until I head into the city to work later. Now, I know you’re married, so I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but one of the girls thought you were really cute. I’m taking one of them out Thursday and her friend wanted to tag along if you were going to be there. But don’t worry, I told her that you’re married and put an end to that. If you get back in time and want to come here to my place instead of driving back to Westchester, give me a call. I’ll be here with the girls. I’m comfortable, just unbelievably comfortable, so don’t worry about me at all.”

  Around two o’clock in the afternoon he sent me a text. It was simple, but the rage still came through. All it said was, “Delayed in Charlotte. Sitting on my suitcase.” It’s too bad that I didn’t read it until much later, but I couldn’t help it. I was busy napping.

  CHAPTER 10

  THERE’S NOTHING LIKE PARIS IN THE SPRING

  You’ve gotten this far, and I salute you for that because it hasn’t been a joyride. It has been the truth, though, and the truth is all I have to stand by, easy read or not. It wasn’t an easy “life,” either, believe me. I say this now because I’m about to tell a story involving someone who means the world to me, but up until now in this book I haven’t said so at all. Her name is Adrienne and Stern fans know all about her, but to understand what I’m going to tell you now, I need to say a few things about myself first. Keep in mind I’ve only recently learned these things and can only now actually say them out loud, so bear with me.

  I’ve got a gruff exterior and what an analyst of human behavior might call a “cynical-sarcastic comic attitude.” I’d never argue with that; it sums up my public persona perfectly. But that’s not me in my personal life at all; I’m very emotional and I fall hard for people I care about, especially women. Yeah, yeah, I can hear you fans who think that means I “act like a pussy,” because that’s what I’ve had friends tell me through the years. But I don’t, I just fall hard and when things don’t work with my girlfriends I experience a spectrum of emotions that are very extreme: anger, sadness, depression . . . but I can’t lie, mostly anger. That’s what swells up inside me when things don’t go my way.

  If you’re a drug addict like I am, anger is the most dangerous emotion of all because anger is at the root of all impulsive, destructive behavior. In the AA program, which I’ve done my best to stay with (though my batting average is fair to middling so far) the biggest drive in those moments when I’ve lost my way has always been anger. I mean, let’s face it, I nearly killed my former assistant Teddy over some pretty trivial bullshit. Anger is the devil on my shoulder; it’s the slippery slope to relapse and I’m no delusional fool—I know that relapse isn’t ever far behind me. Anger has a twin brother, and his name is Resentment, and they are best friends who are bound at the hip. Every time I’ve fallen off the wagon, whether it’s been a day or a week, I can pin the blame on one or both of them. I have to be honest, I’ve been doing my best, but sometimes they get the best of me. I’m an addict. I know this. I am wired to consume and self-destruct. My struggle every day is to not do that.

  When you love somebody you’re vulnerable, and when you’re vulnerable your emotions get the better of you. When you’re in love you have no control, which is a tricky thing because at that point your emotions take control of your actions. When you’re in love everything is amplified, both inside and outside of you. It’s such an intense state of mind and it affects different people differently, but no matter how it does, the results are always elevated. Being in love can make you controlling and obsessive simply because you want to be with the person you love every single minute of every single day. Whether we’re talking about the Stones, Springsteen, Jimi Hendrix, Dylan, or The Who, all of their best songs are about women who did them wrong or confused them enough that they had to create something to try to figure out the “why” of it all. They had to find a way to use their yearning and dissatisfaction. If they didn’t it would eat them alive. I take those same feelings and put them into my comedy because I have to send them somewhere. I may bust balls all day professionally, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings. If you ask me, I have too fucking many and most of them are too much for me to live with. Without comedy I don’t know what I’d do . . . actually I do, I just don’t want to think about that.

  What I’m trying to say is that this chapter is about feelings and this chapter is about Adrienne, but what I want to be clear about is that she wasn’t the first girl I’ve ever loved. There have been several whom I considered my true loves at the time. What I’ve found out to be true is that Adrienne is someone that I’ve loved more than anyone else I’ve ever known outside of my family. I’ve never had the depth of passion I have for her for anyone else in the whole world. I fell deeply in love with her when we were together and though the dynamics changed between us, my feelings always remained the same.

  ————

  On May 14, 2009, I got temporarily clean after Joe the Cop and Helicopter Mike saw me through the Subutex withdrawals down at my beach house. That was when I got healthy, when I lost forty pounds, when I hit the gym daily, and started to look like something resembling good. And that’s when I saw Adrienne for the first time. She literally was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen in my life. She had, and still has, these eyes I could see from twenty feet away. Years later I described them in a letter I wrote to her like this: “If heaven had green lights, they would be your eyes.” If anyone reading this wants to punch me in the face for writing something so corny and sending it through the US mail to a woman, don’t worry, I couldn’t agree more. In fact I’m going to do that right now.

  There. Done. I feel better. I hope you do too. Now we can move on.

  When I went into the tanning salon, I was relieved to find out that she was just filling in for a friend. Because I downplayed this fact before, let me be honest about it now: I think tanning salons are a sign of the apocalypse. I think they are ruining Western civilization from within. They are making everyone orange and dumb. They should all be destroyed.

  As I’ve already told you, I managed to sweet-talk her for a while, making plans to get a shave a few days later, then I kept at the small talk until it evaporated. I asked her where she was from—Cherry Hill, about an hour and a half away—and I was thankful that she was a Yankees fan, not a Phillies fan. And after that I took her to the SNL party at Rockefeller Center and soon after that we started dating seriously. That’s when we started spending as much time as we could together.

  I fell deeply in love with her, though she is very different from me in every possible way. That was new for me, because all of my girlfriends, aside from Dana, were pretty much all like me. My past girlfriends had been Jersey Italian types, pretty much across the board. Even if they hadn’t been Italian they might as well have been. I had never in my whole life dated a WASP before, and Adrienne is the Jersey version of that.

  My last girlfriend Dana was nothing like me, not only because she was adorable and sexy and I’m not, but because she didn’t like the same things I do. But the funny thing was when we fought Dana would yell, and when she did, she sounded like Andrew Dice Clay. Which, in a weird way I care not to explore ever for the rest of my life, really turned me on.

  As I was saying, Adrienne is none of those things. She isn’
t Italian, and she didn’t grow up in an Italian neighborhood. She comes from a really great family, all very classy people. That’s not to say my family isn’t classy, we’re just louder and more obnoxious. Adrienne’s family is a refined one, and she’s a brilliantly smart girl. She did a semester at Oxford and went to Australia to study, she’s traveled abroad and met all kinds of interesting people, and all of that fascinated me. She is everything I’m not, from the way she was raised to the way she looks. If you see a photo of us side by side, your first thought will probably be that we’d never work. I’d say the same if I were you because I get it, I’m much better looking. But joking aside, the truth is that Adrienne and I do work. We genuinely have true love for each other.

  When we were first together, during that time when I was sober, my love for her became very, very deep. She gave our relationship her all, trying to help me through my problems. I warned her that she was walking into the eye of a hurricane, but she assured me that she could handle it. I gave her a copy of Too Fat to Fish at that point just to be sure, telling her that it was required reading if she planned to be with me for a week, for a month, or for the rest of either of our lives. I wanted her to know where I was coming from and that even though I was in a good place, she should understand what I would be trying to fend off each and every day. I told her that if I relapsed she needed to be strong enough to walk out, no questions asked. “You will need to save yourself. You will need to get the fuck away from me, right away,” I told her. She agreed that she would and could do that. And so we went on.

  I guess that pact was our prenup, because once we’d had that talk, we set off on a great romance. Like I said, she and I should not have worked, just by looking at us, just on the basis of how different we are, but we did. I made her a part of my life in every way, right away. When I did Letterman I made jokes about dating a younger girl, because at the time she was twenty-five and I was forty-one. My joke was innocent enough: I told Dave how women always want to “do something,” and how that was a full-time job. They don’t always know what they want to do, but they want to do “something.” When we came back from commercial, they had a camera on Adrienne, in the greenroom, and she looked stunning. She looked like Christie Brinkley’s younger, better-looking sister. It was unbelievable; she’s gorgeous in person, but on camera her beauty just popped. She was tan and those eyes were incredible and she was wearing this cross necklace by Lazaro that I had bought for her.